The Spanish Man

As my lady was in her daisy garden, The salt tide rose by her garden wall;

O, the salt tide rose by her river garden And quiet was my love’s footfall.

Where the sea flows over the full fresh water, My love I saw under still boughs;

And swimming my boat on that tidal river, I took my moorings by her greenhouse.

There were many ladies along the Claddagh Taking air by each garden tree—

All taking air in that early evening And none so quiet as my lady.

I stepped beside her most entertaining, Making fine talk on that rounded sea;

But O she said: “You, I cannot marry, For a Spanish man said bravely to me:

‘O be my lady and in Limerick laces Your delicate ways shall airily pass, With quiet feet in your blue pampooties

And guinea-hens on the daisy grass.’”

Then her father came with that Spanish stranger And led my love from her garden tree—

O, they led my love from her daisy garden, As if I were of no quality.

So I’m wandering now with a foreign navy; For love is a pleasure when fresh and new, But growing older, it wants one bolder And it slips away like the garden dew.